


Arsenic and Old Pains

by Yachtly



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders Being an Asshole, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Lyrium, Lyrium Brands, M/M, Magical Illness, Poisoning, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29035968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yachtly/pseuds/Yachtly
Summary: A battle with a blood mage results in an interesting lyrium-bound poison clinging stubbornly to Fenris. The affliction forces him to spend more time with Anders, and the tension is palpable as Fenris is forced to trust Anders, a mage he doesn’t trust, with his life, and repeated closeness to the lyrium marks that have plagued his life for years.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative Title: I try to redeem canon Fenris, not fanon Fenris. I feel like a lot of DA:2 content demonizes Fenris and praises Anders when in reality, I feel that Anders is the more antagonistic of the pair (his comments on Fenris being returned to Danarius, anyone?) I wanted to write a story more from Fenris’ perspective concerning that.  
> If you’re used to fanon Fenris, don’t expect the following tropes in this fic:  
> Fenris calling Anders “mage” constantly instead of his name  
> Fenris calling Anders an “abomination” like. Ever.  
> Fenris hating all mages  
> Fenris drinking lots and lots  
> Anyway! Enjoy the fic!

The spell thudded into Fenris’s chest and seeped in with this coursing, acidic heat. He imagined this would be what it felt when he phased his hand into someone’s chest. The heat�—the pain—chased along his chest, down his legs, up his arms and to his fingertips, following the familiar lines of lyrium etched there for so long. He doubled over, breath escaping him in a weak wheeze, and his sword clattered from his grip.

The mage was too near him, to able to take opportunity of the situation. He had a blade at his hip and pulled it, moving to strike down the prone elf. Fenris’ vision was bleary, pain radiating from the three lyrium spots burned into his forehead. It made light blinding, streaky, and sounds became sharper and cacophanus. 

“No!” he heard Hawke shout as though he was directly in his ear, and watched a blur prevent the blood mage from striking him. Hawke’s own twin blades struck the man down, and then Hawke was in front of Fenris. Far too loud. Far to close.

“Varric, do you have any potions?” Hawke might as well have screamed in Fenris’s ear, and the elf winced. His own hand was still on his chest, pulling at his armor as though that would somehow chase whatever magic this was from his system. 

“Here,” Varric was nearby too, voice causing the pain in Fenris’s head to spike. “Broody, you don’t look so good.”

He had a few thoughts at that. He wanted to say something sarcastic, or maybe make light of the injury, but it felt like there was a hole burned into his chest, and all he could manage was a pained gasp of air. Hawke forced a healing potion down his throat, and he narrowly avoided choking on it. Fenris recognized the familiar comforting warmth of the healing potion and felt it ease some strain in his shoulders, close up a small cut along his left arm, but the sharp, radiating pain of whatever the mage had done to him remained.

“Fenris,” Hawke took him by his shoulders, “Are you alright? What’s happening?”

Fenris blinked and swallowed hard. The pain wasn’t necessarily fading, but he was able to grow used to it, and he could tell it very clearly was settling along the lines of his brands. “I don’t know,” he gritted out.

“We should take him to Anders,” Sebastian called from further away. He was plucking his non-damaged arrows out of the corpses of the demons the blood mage had summoned with him, examining them, and restocking them in his quiver. 

“No,” Fenris said flatly, but he could feel how tight his teeth ground together, and curled a sharp, gauntleted hand against his side. It wasn’t that he hated the mage. They’d known eachother for a number of years, and while he had formed a sort of neutrality towards their healer, Fenris was fairly certain that Anders hated him. Despite the time they’d spent together and the numerous excursions with Hawke, Anders usually picked a fight. And he seemed to intentionally take everything Fenris said the wrong way, to start an argument, to get a rise out of him. But none of those reasons made Fenris reluctant to be healed by him.

“Fenris, something is wrong. Anders might be able to help,” Hawke said, reasoning with him like he was a child.

“I know that,” Fenris scowled. “If a healing potion did nothing, what could he do? Merrill-” he cut himself off as a wave of pain spiked through him. It chased up his throat, to his chin, and he felt his brands flare in reaction. A choked, “Nnnh-” broke through and he tried to school his reaction, fight off the pain.

“I’ll get Daisy,” Varric said, but when Fenris tried to look towards him, he just seemed bleary. “Hawke. You get Fenris to Anders’ clinic.”

“Hawke, if you take me to that clinic-” Fenris started, but his chest ached. His hair was dampened by sweat and stuck to the back of his neck, to his forehead. He closed his eyes, head screaming, throat dry. “Kaffas-”

“Okay, up you go-” Hawke may have meant his voice to be quiet or gentle, but it rung in Fenris’s ears. He wanted to fold them down, to protect himself from the onslaught of noise and light. He felt Hawke’s arms under his own, hauling him up from his knees and carrying him away from the site of battle. He could only hope someone gathered his sword.

Splitting pain down the middle of his head, down his spine. He couldn’t tell where exactly they were, but all the noise, the rushing wind around them, made Fenris nauseated. He let his head loll back, eyes still closed, trying to focus on his breath-

“Maker, Fenris, your…” Hawke’s voice was uneasy, “Your… the tattoos? The marks, I don’t know what you call them-”

“Stop talking,” Fenris tried to say, but the words were garbled through a tight through, pained breathing. Anything he could do to relieve the pain.Another full-body spasm threw him back in time. He was back in Tevinter, barely conscious, magisters pinning him down and carving the lines of lyrium into his skin. He could hardly remember most of it, just flashes of this. His own screams ringing in his ears, the way Danarius would comment, marvelling at him as though he was an object, a tool to be appraised. That’s all he was to the magister, after all.

Fenris vaguely registered the stench of Darktown, but the dim light was a blessing. Vision still bleary, ears ringing, mouth cotton. He felt the impact of his leg on a door as he assumed Hawke burst into Anders’ clinic.

“Maker’s breath, what happened to him?” he heard Ander’s voice, hushed and urgent, or perhaps tired.

“I don’t know,” Hawke replied. “Maker, look at his-”

“Here, here,” Anders moved things around, or Fenris assumed he did. He heard the clattering of objects like cannonfire and winced.

“Varric is getting Merrill. It might be blood magic-”

“Blood magic?” Anders said sharply, voice venomous. Fenris felt himself be laid on a cot, and let his eyes open slightly. Even the dim torchlight of the clinic overwhelmed him, and the world seemed to spin. “What in Andraste’s name did you go fighting?”

“Just a blood mage and some demons!” Hawke exclaimed like his sentence was remotely normal. Well, for their group, it was relatively standard.

“Fenris, can you hear me?” Anders voice was sharp in his ear and Fenris moved harshly away from it. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he continued more quietly. “I… Hawke, his face-”

“What?” Fenris managed weakly, trying to blink, to figure out what was going on, but almost immediately retched. Dry heaves forced him to curl in on himself.

“Whatever it is, it’s in your markings,” Anders said quickly, and Fenris felt him activate some sort of diagnostic spell. Usually, healing magic was a warm balm on the markings, alleviating the constant, humming pain they carried with them, but as soon as Anders magic touched him, his body felt aflame.

He screamed, arching up off the cot. His voice seemed to double in his mind and he could see the magisters, slicing him apart, muttering incantations to ensure the success of the ritual, pouring potent lyrium into the wounds-

Anders’ magic left him immediately and the roaring pain abided. Fenris panted, curling onto his side, a moment’s relief. Faintly, he heard himself whimper, and bit his own tongue, ashamed of the noise.

“Sweet Maker,” Anders whispered. Fenris’s vision seemed slightly clearer, and he watched Anders take a few stumbling steps backwards. “I don’t think it’s blood magic. I think it’s poison.”

“What?” Hawke asked. “How is  _ that _ a poison?”

“Some poisons sap health and some sap… stamina. Magic. I think… I don’t know I can only speculate, but if the blood mage sensed that Fenris had lyrium in his body, they could have targeted it,” Anders was rambling, pacing back and forth. Fenris could make out his form, but no features, just the shape of the dark coat, the staff, and his head moving to and fro across his vision. He felt weak, half-asleep.

He heard the door creak and unshod footsteps as Merrill hurried into the clinic. “Anders? Is it blood magic?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Just to be sure,” Fenris felt more magic flare up near him and tried to shove himself away. He gathered his strength and sent himself backwards, tumbling off the cot.

“Fenris-” Hawke tried to grab him, to keep him from thudding hard against the floor, but missed as he tried to grab him. Fenris collided, back first, against the ground and the air was knocked out of him momentarily.

“The magic hurts him,” Anders said, probably to Merrill. “But I doubt there’s any other way to get it out-”

Fear overwhelmed Fenris and he tried to stand, to get further away, but stumbled into something. A wall, a person-

Hands closed around his shoulders, and he heard Hawke’s voice, “Fenris, we’re trying to help you-”

“Don’t touch me,” he spat, and tried to steel himself, to flare his markings and phase out of Hawke’s grip, but as soon as he tried to activate them, his vision flashed white, and he felt himself crumple to his knees. He was limp, partially conscious, but his body wouldn’t respond when he tried to move, and he could feel his breath coming shallowly.

“Get him back on the cot,” Anders’ voice again. “I have to get some of it out of him.”

Fenris tried to speak, but he couldn’t. He tried to will his thoughts to someone. To Hawke, Merrill, even Anders himself.  _ No. Please. Please don’t- _

The magic flared up again and he howled. His voice felt disjointed, separate from his body. Anders magic was centered around his face, around the lyrium marks in his forehead, his chin, his throat-

He woke up in the same cot, vision clearer, body wracked with aches and what felt like fever. Beside the bed, Hawke sat in a chair, sitting back with his arms crossed, head low on his chest, eyes closed. His chest rose and fell with the deep, even breaths of sleep. How long had it been?

Fenris looked around the rest of the clinic. It was empty besides Hawke, and Anders had collapsed in a bed nearby, still fully dressed in his robes, staff propped against the bedside. He looked down at his body. They’d stripped his armor off of him, leaving him in the simple, sleeveless grey tunic and black leggings he wore underneath.

He could see it then. His markings were marred with deep green tendrils, like vines, and they stretched out along his veins. But he could see them, and he could move his arm. He brought his hand up and clenched it into a fist, feeling his fingernails bite into his palm.

His head was clearer, perhaps more free of the toxin than the rest of his body, but he didn’t want to stay. He  _ couldn’t _ stay and let Anders heal him again. The idea made him feel cold, empty. Another mage not asking. Another mage wringing pain from the markings along his form.

Fenris was a quiet person. He pushed himself upright, leaving his armor where it lie and snuck past Hawke, past Anders. Each step shot soreness up his legs, chasing up his spine, but he had to get out, get back home, barricade the doors and let the poison work itself through his system naturally. He wouldn’t let them heal it with magic. Not if it was in the lyrium.

Very, very carefully, he cracked the door of the clinic and stole his way into Darktown. He felt half-delirious from exhaustion, from the acidic sting with every movement, but he made it to his Hightown mansion and locked the door. 

Bed. He needed his bed. Needed to sleep for… maybe a week. He stumbled into the foyer and attempted to climb the stairs, but collapsed halfway up. He could hardly move, and definitely would be unable to get himself all the way up, so he resigned himself to the uncomfortable spot, let his eyes slip closed, and slept.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is forced to accept that magic is the only way to help him.

The morning screamed at Fenris. It screamed with its bright lights streaming into his mansion and the uncomfortable recognition of his own stiffness. His head had settled onto its own stair, and the crick in his neck made it difficult for him to move. His arm was asleep, buzzing with numbness, and every breath, every movement sent shocks of pain throughout his body. He couldn’t tell if it was from the poison or from his terrible sleeping place. It didn’t matter. He had this sense he needed to move, needed to hide-

The morning screamed again with thudding on his front door. His eyes snapped fully open quickly, and he forced himself to a half-stand. He rushed up the steps, into his bedroom, eyes scanning for a place to hide. He couldn’t let them find him. He couldn’t go back to Ander’s clinic. He couldn’t be subject to his magic anymore.

“Fenris!” he heard Hawke shout his name, though muffled by the door and the distance. It wouldn’t be long before the rogue simply forced his way through. Like a child, Fenris rushed towards his closet and hid inside, crouching down and forcing his breathing into a steady quietness.

A blast sounded from downstairs, shaking the house, probably blowing the door open, and he heard multiple sets of footsteps.

“Fenris!” Hawke called again, distant, still downstairs. Fenris clapped his hand over his mouth and realized how much his hands shook, how weak he felt. Whatever poison this was, it was strong. “Damn you-”

“What if he’s not here?” he recognized Anders' voice, in the foyer. His voice echoed throughout the room, up the stairs towards Fenris’s bedroom. “Maker, what if he left Kirkwall? We have no idea-”

“His door was locked,” Hawke said quickly, some hope seeping into his voice. “He doesn’t lock it when he leaves. There’s nothing to steal. Only when he wants to keep something out-”

“Well wherever he is,” Anders scoffed, and Fenris could hear the two of them quickly scaling the stairs. “This is ridiculous. That his hatred of mages is so great he’d rather die-”

Fenris felt his brow furrow. They hadn’t mentioned dying the day before. At least not while he was still conscious.

“Anders, he’s terrified. You saw him yesterday. Not everything is about mages,” Hawke bit out coldly. Fenris heard the door to his bedroom open and forced his eyes closed, focusing on keeping his breath silent. “Fenris,” Hawke called. The elf stiffed, fearing for a moment that Hawke could somehow see him through the door to his wardrobe. He held his breath until Hawke continued, “Maker, Anders, where would he go-”

“What’s the point of looking for him?” Anders asked snippily. “If he doesn’t want a mage helping him, then none of this even matters-”

“Will you swallow your hatred for one moment!” Hawke shouted, “He is our friend and I don’t want him to die!”

“I wouldn’t call him my friend-”

“Damn you, Anders-”

Heavy footsteps paced the room. Fenris tried to remain still, the picture of silence, but poison in his system seemed to have different plans. This searing acid stretched up from the central point of pain in his chest, slowly crawling along the lines of lyrium back up towards his throat. He briefly saw the brands flared, and tried to silently will them back to darkness.

“Did you see that?” Anders asked flatly.

“See what?” Hawke asked and the footsteps stilled.

Lighter, quicker footsteps approached the wardrobe, and the door was flung open. Fenris shielded his eyes against the light, and looked blearily up at Anders.

“Andraste’s tits, Fenris,” Anders breathed out as if in relief despite what Fenris had just heard him say. The elf felt his brow furrow deeply. Anders dropped down to his knees and reached out immediately to take Fenris’s face in his hands. Fenris reached up quickly, grabbed Anders’ wrist, and pushed his hand away. 

“Fenris-” Hawke jogged to the armoire and sank down beside Anders. He pulled Fenris immediately into a painful, crushing hug. “Maker you worried me. We’ve got to get you back to the clinic.”

“No,” Fenris said flatly, surprised at the strength he was able to will into his voice while his body felt so frail. Hawke slowly released him from the hug and he settled comfortably back into the corner of the wardrobe. “I… I can’t-”

“It’s getting worse,” Anders gestured to Fenris’s face with the hand still held in the elf’s grip. “See how it’s spreading back up to his face?”

“Don’t speak about me as though I’m not here,” Fenris said sharply. “And how dare you do what you did to me yesterday when-”

“Oh, save your life?” Anders quipped. “Get poison out of your system? Once again help your ungrateful mage-hating-”

“I didn’t want your help,” Fenris sneered.

“You would have died!” Anders exclaimed, then let out an exasperated almost-laugh. “You will die! If you don’t let me help you with this damned poison.”

“I don’t want your help,” Fenris gritted and tried to stand. It was undignified, pushing himself upright, hanging clothes scrunching up on top of his head as he stood. But he tried to resume his normal posture. “I’ll… bear it until it passes-”

“Fenris, it  _ won’t  _ pass,” Hawke tried. “It’ll continue to spread until all of it is out of you. Anders can remove it, but-”

“No,” Fenris said again and pushed himself out of his wardrobe. He walked shakily over to his bed and sat down on the edge of it. He tilted his neck, trying to work the soreness from it from his time on the stairs. 

“Fenris” Anders said eventually, voice calmer, “I know we have our differences, but I don’t want to watch you die of this. I swear, I’m just trying to help you-”

“I don’t want any magic near me right now,” Fenris said abruptly. He watched Anders’ eyes narrow.

“You know, I’m not really sure what I expected of you, Fenris, but this is quite the hill to die on,” the mage closed the wardrobe with much more force than necessary, and Fenris winced at the noise of it. His oversensitivity to sound had dulled severely since the night before, when he assumed Anders cleared the poison from the lyrium on his face, but it was still there.

“This isn’t about you,” Fenris rolled his eyes.

“Oh, so it’s just about magic in general?” Anders scoffed. “That’s quite the leap to make.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth,” Fenris gritted out, “I-” he cut himself off with a pained yelp as his brands flared. For a moment, his throat seemed to close up and he coughed, clawing at his throat for breath, until the flare subsided and there he was, heaving at the edge of his bed.

“That’s it,” Anders strode towards Fenris, rubbing his hands together, “I’m getting this-”

“No!” Fenris shouted. He tried to train his voice into anger, but what escaped was pure terror. He held his hands up, his only defense to Anders’ magic. “I’ll rip your heart out if you-”

“Like you could actually ghost in your state,” Anders rolled his eyes and even from their distance, a few feet away, Fenris could feel Anders pulling his magic to his hands, and his lyrium reacted, and the poison reacted-

“Anders stop!” Hawke shouted, lunging forward and grabbing the mage’s hands. It interrupted the spell and Fenris unclenched his jaw, let a pained gasp escape him.

“Do you want me to help him or not?” Anders asked. “I have to use magic to-”

“Please, Anders,” Fenris’s breath was still heavy, erratic. “There- there has to be another way. I cannot-”

“Fenris, you won’t survive long enough for us to find another way,” Anders groaned. He spun in a small circle and wiped his hand down his face. “I could try… taking it out in portions. Like I did your head. But starting small. Your hands. Feet-”

Fenris grew tense at the thought of it. This numbness was settling over him, and he slowly began to realize there was nothing he could do to escape this. Anders had his mind made up, would not hear his protestations. There was nothing he could do to prevent Anders from finding some way to heal him with magic.

“There’s no antivenom?” Fenris asked weakly.

“Maker, you’re stubborn,” Anders shook his head. “I promise you Fenris, I don’t  _ actually  _ want to cause you any physical pain. If there was some other way, I’d do it, but there isn’t. It’s unpleasant, and I know you don’t like magic…” there was a terseness in his tone, like he didn’t really mean what he was saying, but was saying it to placate Fenris, to try and put him at ease.

“Your bedside manner is lacking,” Fenris grumbled, which earned a small smile from Hawke.

“We can compromise,” Hawke proposed with an unfitting cheeriness. “You don’t go to the clinic. You stay here. And Anders can try doing it bit by bit, to lessen the pain.”

Fenris dug his nails into his palms. It wasn’t about the pain. Pain he could withstand. It was what came with it. But he didn’t feel the need to explain to Anders and Hawke why it bothered him. They shouldn’t need to know. They should just accept his discomfort and move on, but they couldn’t, or refused to. Fenris didn’t know which was worse.

“First,” Anders said. “We should get you rehydrated. And something to eat. It’ll be an ordeal.”

Fenris just nodded numbly. He tried to rise, to move throughout his own home freely and get his own food, but Hawke insisted he remain in bed. He laid back in the bed, for a moment feigning annoyance, but his body felt exhausted, and he silently thanked Hawke for forcing him to lie still.

Anders puttered about the room aimlessly for a moment before disappearing and returning with a bowl of water and some cloth. “Here. You’re feverish, and I’d like to get a look at your markings if you don’t mind. To see how the poison is spreading. But I won’t use magic. I promise.”

Fenris scooted so he sat up against the headboard and nodded again. Anders settled beside him on the bed and wet the cloth. Gingerly, he wiped Fenris’s hair back off his forehead and dabbed it with the damp cloth. It was cold, and Fenris winced as it made contact with his skin, as Anders’ fingers gently pressed near the lyrium markings there.

The man almost permanently thrummed with magic. Perhaps it was that way with most mages, but he’d only really been physically near Anders, and of course Danarius. But perhaps it was the spirit that Anders harbored, giving him extra power and an ever-present ozone aura that smacked of the Fade. Fenris let his eyes fall closed while Anders dabbed at his forehead, then smoothed his thumb over the lyrium. Whatever magic innately rested in Anders had a soothing effect over the marks on his forehead. It was a warmth that banished the ringing in his ears, the groaned quietly at the sole moment of relief since he’d been struck with the spell.

“Does that hurt?” Anders asked softly, pulling his hand away. Fenris opened his eyes and looked into Anders’ gold ones. They were wide, forehead lined with worry. Fenris felt something of a twinge in his chest. Did Anders truly care if he was in pain? His demeanor was so often inconsistent it was hard to tell. Perhaps, Fenris thought, he could blame that too on the spirit.

“No,” Fenris shook his head very slightly. “That one is fine.” He kept his eyes open and watched Anders look down at the marks on his chin.

“Maybe because they’re disconnected from most of the other marks,” Anders pondered aloud. “Your chin is still clear, but down on your throat, the poison is creeping up,” he met Fenris’ eyes once more. “I’m going to touch the markings on your chin, but nowhere with the poison, alright?”

Fenris just gritted his teeth and nodded, closing his eyes. He felt Anders' hand ghost on his jaw for a moment before he pressed the pad of his thumb against the lines on his chin. Fenris winced immediately as the brand flared and the poison sent a jab of pain through his chest.

“Anders, stop-” Fenris gasped, and Anders pulled his hands away.

“I’m sorry,” the mage muttered. For a moment, he did nothing, then picked up the cloth again. He dabbed Fenris’s head once more. 

For a moment, neither man spoke a word, but then Fenris was compelled to speak. He kept his eyes closed and muttered, “I think… you’ve misunderstood me. I don’t just mindlessly hate mages, you know.”

“You hate me,” Anders countered immediately.

Fenris frowned deeply. He felt it in the lines on his forehead, where Anders’ hand still hovered. Again, neither of them spoke. Distantly, Fenris could still hear Hawke wandering the house. 

He hated the weakness he felt. He hated how much he wanted to lean on Anders for support while doing nothing but sitting upright. He hated knowing that even doing that would likely cause Anders to touch the marks and bring him more pain. He hated that Hawke was taking so long to scrounge up a good amount of food and water. He hated that the blood mage had spotted his lyrium so clearly that their dying action was to poison him.

“I don’t hate you,” he murmured, unprepared for how tired he would sound. His voice was low and gravelly, perhaps from the dryness or the screaming that came along with his condition. He wasn’t sure. But the cool damp cloth on his forehead was a blessing, and occasionally, when Anders’ fingers would brush over his skin, touching the marks on his forehead, he would get a wave of warmth. Relief and peace.

The door opened quietly. Fenris let his eyes open and watched Hawke enter the room with a tray of assorted foods and multiple cups of water. He set the items on the foot of the bed and sighed, “As much as I’d love to stay and putz around your mansion, Fenris, I do need to go report the blood mage’s glorious defeat-”

“Get out of my house, Hawke,” Fenris grumbled, and Anders snorted. A very small smile curled at the mage’s lips, and Fenris, in his somewhat delirious state, found himself staring at it. He had this very faint freckles that marked the skin of his face. Freckles he wouldn’t have noticed if not for their proximity. “Thank you,” he added, tearing his eyes away from Anders and over to the rogue.

Hawke nodded, then pointed a stern finger at Fenris, “No running away again.”

“I’m not sure I’d get very far,” Fenris admitted. He glanced back at Anders. For a moment, dead spiked, and he was sure that as soon as Hawke’s left, he would stop the act, flare up his magic- 

As if on cue, the poison flared. He could feel it spreading along his lyrium lines and he hunched forward, grabbing Anders’ shoulder. Almost immediately, Anders moved the cloth from Fenris’s forehead and pressed three fingers over the lyrium marks there. The seeping warmth tried to fight against the pain to little avail, but it kept Fenris from crying out.

“Anders,” Hawke’s said, voice still stern, “Don’t let him die.”

“I don’t plan on it,” Anders replied. He was speaking softer, as though Hawke was an afterthought. He almost seemed preoccupied. 

Hawke nodded, then left. Once the wave of pain, the spread of the poison fully subsided, Fenris reached for the food and water at the foot of the bed. Slowly, careful not to eat too much too quickly and make himself sick, Fenris picked away at the food and finished off a cup of water.

“Do you want to rest before or after I try to get some of the poison out?” Anders asked eventually.

“I’ll be tired either way,” Fenris replied. He wanted to put on a brave face, hide his unease, but he could feel the strain in his voice, the near constant ache from his chest, now pulsing and stronger than it had been before.

“Here’s my plan,” Anders began, ignoring that Fenris had spoken, “I’ll start with your feet because they are further away from your chest, where you were first hit. So it will take longer for the poison to get back down there if I start with your legs and move upwards. I’ll also try to keep it away from this spot on your head,” he gestured to Fenris’s forehead. “Because that seemed to affect you a lot. It will hurt, but this way you’ll be more ready for it.”

Fenris scoffed at that. There was no way for him to prepare for the memories he’d be flooded with. Memories he didn’t know existed until they pulled him out of his body an flung him back to Tevinter, back to Danarius-

“If it gets to be too much, tell me to stop,” Anders said, voice taking on a slightly sterner edge. 

Fenris cocked an eyebrow at him. “This is already too much.”

“You know what I mean,” Anders rolled his eyes. Fenris did not know what he meant. Still, he braced himself for the inevitable pain as Anders stood and moved to the end of the bed, nearer Fenris’s feet. “Here we go.”

Anders pulled his magic to the forefront and held his hands above Fenris’s feet. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, then let the healing magic stretch out and make contact with Fenris’s marks. The elf howled, clawing at his bedsheets, whole body arching away from Anders except for the feet, which stayed where they should be. Despite the pain, the urge to bolt, Fenris wanted the poison gone, and tried to hold his legs in place-

He felt bindings on his arms and legs, forcing him down. He couldn’t escape if he wanted to. A voluntary ritual. Inescapable bonds. Lyrium flowed like blood over him, through. The blue stuff stung at his eyes, roiling out like tears, down his cheeks. It tingled where it touched, leaving his skin numb. He coughed up the stuff. How much if it was in his system? Flowing though him? How much was his still a man? Still an elf? What made up his blood?

“Fenris! Fenris!” Anders’ shouting brought him back, hands smoothing over his face where the poison didn’t reach. “I’m done! Maker, I told you to stop me if-“

“And  _ I  _ told you it was already too much,” Fenris spat. His chest heaved, but he felt slightly clearer, less sore. With each bit of poison Anders removed, he felt a little more like himself. Less shaky and frightened, more capable of standing up to the mage.

“Of course it is,” Anders scoffed. There it was again. Whatever momentary facade Anders likes to wear to make himself seem kind, to act as though he cared about Fenris, it had faded and the harsh, judgmental Anders returned to stand in his place. “I already told you there’s no other way-“

“I know that,” Fenris snapped. “Or else I’d have your heart in my hand for doing this to me again-“

“Perhaps if you were more prepared in battle, this wouldn’t happen,” Anders countered. “I wouldn’t have fix you up in the first place if you watched your back-“

“We can’t all cower from the sidelines,” Fenris scowled.

“Oh, I’m a coward now?” Anders crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you feel that way about all mages? Cowards who use their dirty magic for their selfish needs-“

“No, but I think many mages are fools for believing they can control something as powerful, as malleable, as magic,” Fenris retorted.

“And that’s how you feel about me?” Anders was challenging him. Fenris couldn’t imagine why he was picking a fight in that moment, and he was exhausted from his ordeal, from his memories. 

He didn’t mean to say what he did. He meant to lie or twist the truth, but he could not tell Anders he thought he was a fool. He never considered Anders to be a fool. Instead, he admitted, “Sometimes, you terrify me.”

Anders brow furrowed deeper and he shouted, “I’ve saved your life countless times! Just because I’m a mage doesn’t make me some big scary enemy, I-“

“I shouldn’t have to explain to you why I fear mages!” Fenris yelled, quieting Anders. The mage still frowned and then shook his head sharply.

“Get some rest. I… have to eat. And sleep. I’ll continue  _ keeping you alive _ when you wake up,” he stalked towards the door, then glared back at Fenris. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but then seemed to think better of it and stormed out of the room.

Fenris seethed. The hypocrisy of it all, the utter ignorance. The way Anders refused to see anything but his own perspective, like he couldn’t see that some mages were cruel, that some mages had hurt Fenris. But he was too exhausted to get worked up over the mage and his mercurial moods, his vehement need to argue with Fenris. He settled back onto the bed, quietly thankful that it wasn’t the stairs, and drifted into a quick, exhausted slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try and update this as much as I can while the idea is still fresh in my head and I don't get distracted, but I also have school and work, so bear with me! Also sorry if the formatting is weird. Most of this is typed on my computer but sometimes I type it on my phone so it might be a little wonky.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders watches over Fenris, battling with Justice's desire to prevent prolonged pain and underlying feelings for the elf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha perspective switch. I am cranking this out very quickly please forgive any mistakes.

Anders couldn’t keep himself away from Fenris for too long. He wandered Hightown until he could find a bite to eat, then returned to the mansion. It was derelict, falling apart, and Anders always had this urge to tidy it up. He knew his own clinic wasn’t much better, but at least it wasn’t trashed. Still, he feared Fenris would rearrange some vital organs in his chest if he messed with anything. He returned up the stairs to Fenris’s bed chamber and watched the elf fitfully sleep.

His fever had subsided mostly, and he was less clammy, but still writhed. His brow was furrowed deeply, and occasionally, he would wince and his markings would flare. It was unusual, not like the bright flash of white-blue light that Anders was familiar with from battle. The light pulsed a sickly, putrid green, and it crawled like a spreading vine up across the lyrium brands. Fenris remained asleep when the markings flared, but gasped out weakly, like all the air had been blown from his chest. 

Part of Anders wanted to just rip the poison out of him, to stop the spread and prevent the pain. Justice favored that idea. It would give him peace, and though it would hurt, it would be merciful. Anders had to fight Justice off every time he tried to heal Fenris. The spirit tried to surge forward, to pull the poison from the lyrium right then and there, little care for Fenris’s feelings. Fighting of Justice was half the battle, and it left him exhausted and irritable.

He sat on the floor beside the bed and rested his head against it, trying desperately to get some sleep. He let his eyes fall closed and drifted off to the sound of Fenris’s labored breathing.

He awoke some time later. The sun had set and the sky outside the window was darkened, and Fenris was gasping, weak, pained noises from the bed. Anders stood up quickly, turning to the elf. The markings were flared bright, the poison chasing along them faster than before, but he still remained asleep. A pang of pity speared Anders’ chest. How exhausted was he from this illness that this amount of pain didn’t wake him? Anders knelt beside Fenris on the bed and checked his face. The three circular lyrium dots on his forehead were still free of the toxin, and he took a deep breath, laying his palm against the mark.

The lyrium sang to him. It always had. Whenever Anders stood near Fenris and he activated the brands, Justice lunged forward, longing for the touch of the Fade Fenris carried permanently within him. This poisoned lyrium felt different and wrong when he worked on it, but the marks on Fenris’s head were clean and familiar.

He wondered if he just pushed a slight bit of healing magic through this brand, trying carefully not to touch the others, if it would alleviate the pain at all. 

Justice protested, forcing Anders to pull his hand back away.  _ He is asleep. He does not want your magic. _

“Make up your mind,” Anders hissed. “Do you want to get the poison out or not?”

_ Using magic on him now would not remove the poison. It would just use magic on him without his consent. _

Anders kept his hand at bay, realizing that Justice was correct. The brands called, the light leaving them, but the same poisonous tendrils ran throughout them. Anders had spend probably too much time tracing the lines of those lyrium markings with his eyes, the way they followed Fenris’s muscles, accented the curve of his throat. He’s wanted to see more, to see how they curved over his chest or his back, but didn’t expect it to be like this. Fenris’s sleeveless tunic still covered his chest, but the lyrium lines from his arms were already tainted enough. 

Anders gritted his teeth and forced himself to turn away from the elf, to prevent reaching out again, wanting to heal him despite Fenris’s hatred of him. But those words from before rung in his head. Fenris said he  _ didn’t _ hate Anders, that he  _ didn’t _ hate all mages. Was there hope then? To save Fenris from his bigotry? Or was it just the wishful thinking of a mage desperately attracted to a mage-hater. Admitting  _ that _ stung too. That he was attracted to Fenris. For a while, he’d just blamed it on Justice and the spirit’s fascination with Fenris’s lyrium. But then he caught himself marveling at Fenris’s strength, won over by his passion and his dedication to free other slaves. His large green eyes, so expressive, his cocky smirk, his humor, his voice- all things Justice couldn’t care less about. But the warrior showed no signs of trusting him, let alone liking him.

Anders glanced back at Fenris. The poison was crawling up his throat again, close to his chin. He took the elf’s shoulder, careful not to touch any markings, and shook it gently. “Fenris,” he stage whispered. “Fenris, wake up.”

Fenris turned his head sharply towards Anders and his eyes fluttered open. They were bleary and unfocused for a moment. Still, they were the same mossy green, unmarred by the poison in his system. “Anders?” he seemed, for a moment, confused, then winced, seeming to remember the poison and the pain. “Do… do you need to do more?”

“It’s spreading quite quickly, and I want to keep it away from your head,” Anders nodded. “I’d like to try something though, if you’re alright with it.”

“I’m not alright with any of this,” he grumbled. 

“I’d like to try pushing a little healing magic through the spot on your forehead,” Anders continued, ignoring Fenris’s remark. “I’m hoping it might alleviate some pain. If it works, I could try and do that when the markings flare up to make it more bearable.”

Fenris frowned and said nothing for a long time. Eventually, he began to push himself upright and out of the bed.

“Fenris-“ Anders’ his brow furrowed. “I have to-“

“I’m going to piss. Do you mean to watch me do that as well?” Fenris shot a challenging glare over his shoulder and Anders balked, shaking his head. He let Fenris quietly pad out of the room and waited on the bed. At least his familiar prickly attitude was returning. It was odd to see Fenris so weak, so terrified, and he had missed his snappy remarks despite usually being at the receiving end of his rudeness.

The fear had been chilling. He’d never heard Fenris scream like that. Never heard  _ anyone _ scream like that. The sound echoed in his mind. He’d stumbled back, unable to continue, not wanting to hurt Fenris. But then there was Justice, who also didn’t want to inflict pain, but wanted to prevent further pain, to get it over with, not put it off. Fenris would hate him either way. But the noise he made, the way he ran from Anders’ magic. Until that point, he’d always rationalized Fenris’s fear of magic and mages as mostly theoretical. But seeing him run, desperate to get away, fainting from the pain? The panic?

The door creaked and Fenris re-entered the bedroom. He was pallid, clearly weaker than normal, but still seemed to try to stand proudly. As soon as he reached the bed though, the facade faded, and he leaned down on his side. “You can try it,” Fenris said, voice strained and gritting. Light pulsed in his markings for a moment. He turned to face Anders, brow still furrowed deeply.

“I’ll stop if you ask,” Anders said, reaching towards Fenris’s face. With one hand, he held Fenris’s chin gently. His other hand rested against the marks on Fenris’s forehead and gently let his magic come forward. Only in the hand on his head, not the one at his chin.

His magic mingled with the lyrium in Fenris’s skin, causing a warm hum in his hand, this wash of tingling, radiating energy. The tension in Fenris’s face faded, expression going lax and mouth opening slightly. His breath puffed out gentle and warm against Anders’ hand. “Oh,” he breathed.

“This helps?” Anders checked in. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from Fenris’s face. His eyes fluttered close. Dark eyelashes splayed against his cheek. His hair was brushed back away from his forehead, lips open. Anders wanted to kiss him.

Justice surged forward in the moment of distraction, pouring more magic into the lyrium, hungry for more contact with the fade, wanting to pull the poison from Fenris. He felt Fenris’s lyrium light, the poison colliding with his magic, and the elf cried out, pulling back away from Anders.

“I’m sorry,” Anders said quickly, eyes widening. He clasped his hands towards his chest. “I didn’t mean to do that-”

“What do you mean?” Fenris bit out, face contorted in pain once again. “You don’t have control over your magic well enough to-”

“It was Justice,” Anders said quickly. “He… I’m sorry. I’m trying to hold him back.”

Fenris’s eyes narrowed. His chest heaved quickly, breath still hard. “What is he trying to do? Why do you have to hold him back?”

“He…” Ander sighed, wiping a hand over his face. His tiredness was catching up with him, and he tried to choose his words carefully to avoid an argument. “I’m trying to do this by parts. Not put you through too much pain. But he feels it is cruel to let you remain in pain for a… duration. He’d rather strip it all from you now, use more magic… I don’t want to hurt you. Genuinely.”

“You don’t want to hurt me,” Fenris scoffed. “Which is why you told Hawke you didn’t consider us friends. And that my hatred of mages will kill me-”

“Fenris, I was frustrated and tired and you had run away and I was worried. Don’t use my words against me-”

“You put words in my mouth and use those against me. You actually said those things. I heard you say them,” Fenris quipped.

Anders briefly felt his blood boil, but shook it off. “Look. We should table all of this. Pretend for a moment we don’t hate eachother. Several moments. Days even. This will take a while if I try to hurt you as little as possible, and we shouldn’t argue throughout the whole thing-”

“I am fully capable of withholding snide remarks,” Fenris said pointedly.

“And I’m not?” Anders challenged him. Fenris did not reply, but fixed him with a flat stare. “Let me see your legs. I could work some of the poison out-”

“Do my hands,” Fenris showed them to Anders. The lyrium was darker along his fingers than in other places, and he quietly admitted, “They’re going a little numb.”

“Maker, Fenris, you should have told me that-”

“I woke up not an hour ago,” Fenris glared at him. “Weren’t you supposed to be monitoring me?”

“Didn’t you say you could withhold snide remarks?” he took Fenris’s hands in his own and took a few breaths. Just from touching Anders’ hands, Fenris was already tensing up, gritting his teeth at the pain. The mage took a deep breath, “Alright. Are you ready?”

“No,” Fenris pressed his eyes tightly closed, voice shaking slightly.

“You have to trust that-”

“You cannot expect me to trust you by just demanding I give it to you,” Fenris snapped, eyes flying open and meeting Anders’ own. “How can I trust you when I know your spirit wishes to torture me? Knowing how easily he overpowered you just then?”

“I can hold him off, Fenris. I did it before,” Anders tried gently.

“But not now,” Fenris continued angrily. “You were only trying to alleviate pain and he tainted it-”

“Justice is not malevolent. He doesn’t wish to hurt you-”

“What does it matter what he  _ wishes  _ to do?” Fenris shouted. “It matters what he  _ does _ ! What you do!”

Anders stilled at that, meeting Fenris’s eyes again. There was a fire within them, something familiar and volatile that Anders had seen in Fenris’s gaze many times before. “I…” he began slowly, then shook his head, “You’re right. I’ll try to speak with him, to make him see that. But for now… I do need to attend to your hands.”

“Get it over with,” Fenris said, glaring at where their hands were clasped together. Anders nodded and took a deep breath. He brought the extraction spell up and let it radiate from him to Fenris. The poison was definitely more potent here. Anders could almost taste it when his magic made contact. Acidic, dripping, irradiated pain, and he pulled it from the lyrium, trying to ignore Fenris’s pain. 

The elf must have gotten some of his composure back, because he had clamped his mouth shut and wouldn’t let a yell escape. He grunted, and occasionally would gasp out a pained breath, a weak whimper on the end of it, but nothing like the screams he’d given the last time. His nails dug into Anders’ hands hard enough to draw blood, but the mage ignored it, wringing the poison out of his hands and forearms until the lyrium sung sweet and calm, the sickly tone returning to the soft blue light.

Anders kept his hands on Fenris’s and switched to a healing spell, pushing it through the unpoisoned lyrium.

“No-” Fenris’s eyes flew open, once again filled with panic. “Stop-”

Anders pulled his hands away immediately, holding them up to face Fenris. “I was just trying to-”

“I know what you were trying to do,” Fenris said. He looked at his hands, returning to normal, and flexed the fingers. “I… can feel them again. Thank you.”

“I’m just trying to help the pain,” Anders said. “I can-”

“I don’t-” Fenris started out sharply, voice harsh and loud, but then cut himself off, turning his head away from Anders and not continuing the thought. He gathered his knees up close to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. His chin rested atop his knees, and he stared towards the wall as though it was something unfamiliar to study. 

Anders sighed and looked towards the tray Hawke had brought in the day before, empty of food, but still containing a cup of water. He passed it over to Fenris, “Here. Drink this, and I’ll go get you some more food. If you have enough energy, maybe bathing will make you feel better. Or you could just rest. And I’m exhausted too…”

“You can take the bed. You shouldn’t sleep on the floor,” Fenris said quietly, taking small sips of water.

“Fenris, I’m not going to take your bed while you’re poisoned,” Anders scoffed. “I can sleep on the floor-”

“You shouldn’t sleep on the floor when you’re supposed to be healing me. You need to be able to rest, genuinely,” Fenris countered. “The bed is wide. We could share.”

“Are you joking?” Anders laughed, unable to fight a smile from his face.

“Why would I be joking?” Fenris asked, cocking a brow. “Because you think I hate you?”

“Because you don’t trust me,” Anders said.

For a moment, Fenris stayed quiet and looked into his cup of water as though something was reflected within it. “I trust you while you’re sleeping,” he said eventually.

“What a glowing review,” Anders snorted. “But alright. Don’t be afraid to wake me up if you’re in pain-”

“I’m always in pain.”

“In more pain than usual. If you want me to alleviate it. If you want me to strip more poison out of you,” Anders elaborated. “I’ll be back with food.” He took the tray and crossed to the door. For a moment, he hovered, expecting Fenris to have something else to say, but he just watched Anders leave.

Anders found Fenris’s kitchens and scrounged up enough food for the both of them. He returned to the bedchamber and they ate in silence. The quiet of the night and the use of his magic was exhausting him, however, and he soon found himself laid back on top of the covers, dozing off in the unfamiliar mansion. He stared out the window at the blackness of night in Hightown and drifted away to the sounds of quiet voices in the street.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders takes a bath. Fenris takes off his shirt and Anders finally sees the root of the poisonous problem. Anders heals Fenris's arms and they discuss Justice's skewed sense of rightness.

It had been a couple days of push and pull. Helping Fenris eat enough food, drink enough water, then stripping more poison from the lyrium along his legs, working back up towards his torso. They settled into a steady routine, much of which involved Fenris resting from the strain on his body. No matter how much he slept, dark circles still marked the skin under his eyes, and he never seemed to find peace.

But he was on the mend. He was doing significantly better and Anders felt more comfortable leaving him alone for short periods of time so he could find food for himself, run down to the clinic and make sure he wasn’t desperately needed. Then he would return to Fenris’s mansion, gather some food and water, and the cycle continued.

Fenris gave Anders free use of his washroom, not wanting to force him to trudge all the way back to Darktown just to stay tolerably clean. For the most part, Anders had only done what was needed, to prevent being away from Fenris too long, but as more and more poison was removed, the spread was slower and slower throughout the cleared lyrium, and Anders was in desperate need of a full bath.

Again, Justice protested. _You should not treat yourself to such pleasures while you have work to do. It is unnecessary. A distraction._ Anders shoved Justice to the back of his mind, ignoring him as much as he could. This entire ordeal made him exhausted of the spirit, who couldn’t seem to understand that forcing magic upon Fenris was substantially less just than allowing him to mitigate the pain on his own terms. But the longer they stayed in the mansion, the more Justice reared his head, complaining about time and distractions and even Anders’ quiet moments, just watching Fenris sleep, ensuring he was alright.

But Anders needed a bath. He needed to wash his hair and honestly, shave. The stubble on his face was becoming more like a beard, and it itched more than he was used to. He took the opportunity while Fenris was eating lunch to have a bath. He slowly filled the tub with hot water, stripped away his coat, tunic, and trousers, then sank into the scalding water, hissing as it met with his skin.

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back so the ends of his hair grew heavy with the weight of the water. He breathed in the steam and let the heat work tension from his muscles. He let his head tilt mostly back in the water and carded his fingers through his hair until it was all damp. He took soap and worked it through his hair, paying special attention to the roots, then scrubbed any grime from his body until it felt as though he’d shed a skin. He rinsed through his hair until he was sure he was clean of suds, and dragged himself out of the bath.

Returning to the same clothes as before wasn’t ideal, but he still felt new and refreshed and smelled better. He shaved his face and smoothed his hands over his jawline, tied his hair back loosely, and returned to Fenris’s bed chamber.

The sort of ghostly tone that had hung over Fenris for the past few days was fading, though he still seemed weak, and got shaky if he did too much. Anders had tried to keep him bedridden as much as possible, but he was stubborn, and got antsy with too much downtime, so occasionally he would get up and pace the room. Anders leaned in the doorway and watched as Fenris did just that. His footsteps were near silent as he moved back and forth, occasionally wringing his hands or wincing. At one point, the markings lit and he froze, but as soon as they calmed and the flareup passed, he continued his pacing.

“You’re looking much better,” Anders remarked and Fenris glanced towards him nonchalantly, like he’d known he was there all along and was unsurprised by his presence. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Fenris said shortly. “But… much better than I was before. I… uh,” he continued pacing. Most of their conversations had been like this. A little stilted with almost palpable strain in the room. “How long do you think it will be before we can just… get it out. Be done with this all?”

“I haven’t seen your chest,” Anders said, which at first felt like a non-answer, but he continued. “And that was the central point of the attack, so it will probably be the hardest to remove. We could try that, if you’re up for it. But if it’s too much I’ll stop, and we can continue fighting it from the outside edges in.”

Fenris slowed to a stop and turned to face Anders more fully. Silence stretched between them once more until Fenris moved to the edge of the bed, sat down and tugged his tunic off over his head. The dark vines of poison seemed to meet together at a dark, central point on his chest like a black hole.

Justice’s voice immediately rang in his ears. _Heal him now. Remove the poison, make the lyrium clean._ Anders shook his head sharply. He wasn’t sure sometimes whether the way Justice spoke, the way he had a selfish need for lyruim was innate within him, or if it was Anders’ own less savory characteristics twisting him. He could never be sure. He ignored the spirit and moved towards Fenris. “Andraste’s tits,” Anders frowned, “That doesn’t look good.”

“You expected it to look good?” Fenris snarked, but it was lighter than usual, not angry or judgmental. “You can try your healing on it, but if I ask you to stop.”

“I will stop,” Anders said quickly.

“Will your spirit?” Fenris countered.

Anders sent what he hoped was something like a glare to Justice in his mind and said to Fenris, “I can keep him under control.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes slightly, then let out a long-weary sigh. “I trust you. Justice I’m less sure about.”

“We don’t have to. I can just… start at your arms,” Anders suggested. “Up to maybe your shoulders?” Justice bristled at the move away from the central point, and Anders immediately added on, “To be sure Justice won’t try any funny business, your arms might be best.”

“Arms then,” Fenris nodded and closed his eyes, brow already furrowed in preparation of the magic.

Anders laid his hand on Fenris’s shoulders and took a deep breath, bringing his magic forward. He began to pull the poison from Fenris, slowly, carefully. Though Fenris’s brow was knitted together, jaw tight with strain, the pain didn’t seem as great as it once was. That, or Fenris had gotten a better rein on his reaction. Anders hoped it wasn’t the latter. As he was finishing the spall, he felt his magic surge forward once more, Justice’s hot-white force racing down his hands, but he was able to rip his hands away before the spirit could force any excess healing magic into Fenris. Still his hands sung with the Fade energy, and he had to shake them harshly to diminish the tingling in his fingers.

“Fasta vass,” Fenris cursed, rubbing his shoulders roughly. The poison was nearly completely removed from his arms, and he was beginning to look much more like himself. Still, the dark, twisted knot of poison in the lyrium on his chest remained and seemed no weaker. “Tell Justice that forcibly healing people who don’t want it is unjust.”

“I’ve tried,” Anders groaned, rubbing his temples. His fingertips still buzzed with the residual magic. “He figures it will hurt either way. But what I’m doing is… torturous to you. Prolonging your suffering.” Anders held his tongue about the rest. About the way Justice hated to see the tainted lyrium, how it was wrong and incorrect and needed to be made clean.

“Well who is he to decide how I should suffer?” Fenris huffed.

Anders immediately felt Justice try to surge forward again, rearing his head at the challenge. _Who are you to tell me what is just?_ His voice echoed in the chamber of Anders’ mind, but the mage gritted his teeth, shut his eyes, held him at bay. _We have spent too long here. We must return to our work. This is a distraction. While we delay what could be done swiftly, mages in Kirkwall suffer._

“Anders, are you alright?” he felt Fenris’s hand find his arm, and he could have sworn there was concern in the elf’s voice.

“Justice is yelling at me,” Anders tried to make light of the situation, eyes still shut tight. “And you.”

“I’ll yell at him back,” Fenris snorted. 

“I don’t trust that he won’t just... “ Anders trailed off, trying to swallow Justice down like a bad-tasting medicine. “He’s stubborn.”

“You’re both stubborn,” Fenris remarked. 

Anders chuckled, but it was strained through his teeth. He grumbled, “You don’t want to be healed all at once, so you won’t be. That is the end of the discussion.”

For some reason, that seemed to calm Justice. Or perhaps it just bothered him enough that he slunk off to some dark and distant corner of Anders’ mind to sulk about it. Either way, he felt more in control and let his eyes open slowly. Fenris still stood right before him, hand closed around his arm and brow furrowed with something like worry. His eyes were still wide and kind, not judgmental or sharp.

“Do you and your spirit disagree on many things?” Fenris asked, a small frown growing on his face.

“Not many,” Anders said. “But some. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to put my foot down. It’s… not that he wants to cause you pain. He is more concerned with… me getting back to my work and helping mages. This is secondary in his mind to the greater justice we might enact.”

“Glad to hear I’m so disposable to him,” Fenris scoffed. He released Anders’ arm and moved away from him. He grabbed his tunic off the bed and pulled it back over his head, hiding his chest and back, but leaving his arms in view. He returned to his pacing, but slower, less restless than before.

“Not disposable,” Anders said quickly, and he heard part of Justice’s own booming voice overlap with his, defending himself. “He likes you, actually. Believe it or not.”

“Justice likes me?” Fenris smirked, a dark eyebrow quirking. “Why?”

“Your drive,” Anders said. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched Fenris pace. He moved in wide arcs, more of a slender oval than a simple back and forward line across the floor. His arms looked almost normal if it weren’t for the slight tinge of green right at the tops of his shoulders, trailing along the lyrium lines that disappeared underneath the sleeves of his tunic. He tried not to get distracted by his well-defined muscles, his form strong even in sickness. “Well. And you fight for justice. For slaves especially, but others too. People too weak to protect themselves.”

“I haven’t always,” Fenris said quietly, but didn’t elaborate.

“But you do now,” Anders offered. “We can’t always do the right thing. It matters that you try to now. And you’ve helped some mages as well… mostly against your will. When Hawke has dragged you along-”

“You do understand that the only reason I am ever reluctant to assist mages is because most of the ones we have to help around here are either abominations or blood mages or… something else. If they were just… more like Bethany or even you, I would consider helping more,” Fenris tossed a hand up, a bit of an edge creeping into his voice.

Anders thought out his words carefully, “The mages who need our help are largely like that because of their fear. Their desperation to be away from the Chantry.”

“I understand the desire to be free,” Fenris said quickly. “But I fear what it would mean to free them all, not knowing which ones could be like that.”

“We shouldn’t refuse to help all of them just because a few of them aren’t good,” Anders crossed his arms over his chest. It felt hopeless to have this conversation with Fenris. It always went in circles, but at least this time, it was less heated. Maybe that was due to Fenris’s own exhaustion, or the fact that they still had work to do to fully heal him.

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t help mages,” Fenris groaned and dragged a hand through his hair. “Nobody deserves to be locked up like that, I am simply wary of them. I don’t know how else to explain it to you.”

Anders let the words he had left to say die on his tongue, and silence once again overtook the chamber. It wasn’t long before Fenris tired of his pacing and curled back into bed, weary and ignoring Anders as though he wasn’t in the room. Anders muttered a quiet departure and left the room. He could at least go back to the clinic for a little bit, maybe bring some of his writings over to the mansion to work during the times where Fenris slept. Either way, he could get some work done and appease Justice, make him less likely to take over.

He closed the bedroom door and trekked down the stairs, out of the mansion and through the busy midday streets of Hightown. He wasn’t quite sure why he was surprised by the spirit’s protestation of his current arrangement. Justice hadn’t let him drink or indulge in most pleasures in more recent months, forcing him to spend long, arduous nights at work. Anders couldn’t really complain. It was work he needed to do and if that required ignoring some of the other fineries of life, so be it. But this was different.

This time with Fenris was different than any other time he’d spent with the elf, but admittedly, that wasn’t much time. They were together on adventuring parties and occasionally would happen across each other in the Hanged Man, but there was little exterior conversation that took place between the two. Anders was ashamed to admit that while he’d known Fenris for a number of years, he didn’t truly know the man. And this time was precious to him. He knew part of that was his probably obvious crush, but having time to be away from work, to take his days slower was appreciated as well.

Justice disagreed in a painful flare of ozone that made his ears pop, his sinuses feel flushed. _Our work is important. We don’t have time for slower days._ Anders rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “I’m going back to the clinic right now. What else do you want?” Justice stayed quiet, but his presence was an ambient hum in the back of Anders’ head.

He descended the stairs down into Lowtown and found the familiar entrance to Darktown. A few people putzed around the clinic and he sighed. With a wave of his hand, he lit the lantern. A few hours away couldn’t hurt. And a healer’s work is never through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to give Justice this sort of skewed moral compass partially because he is corrupted by Anders' thoughts and feelings, and in the game, I think this is pretty evident in like. Him almost killing/killing that girl and you know, the entire ending of the game. But yeah! Fenris POV again next!


End file.
